The Works of Edgar Allan Poe — Volume 3

By Edgar Allan Poe

Page 220

shipmate, Will Wimble the
undertaker!”

At this unpardonable piece of ill-breeding, all the original company
half started to their feet, and uttered the same rapid succession of
wild fiendish shrieks which had before caught the attention of the
seamen. The president, however, was the first to recover his composure,
and at length, turning to Legs with great dignity, recommenced:

“Most willingly will we gratify any reasonable curiosity on the part of
guests so illustrious, unbidden though they be. Know then that in these
dominions I am monarch, and here rule with undivided empire under the
title of ‘King Pest the First.’

“This apartment, which you no doubt profanely suppose to be the shop of
Will Wimble the undertaker--a man whom we know not, and whose plebeian
appellation has never before this night thwarted our royal ears--this
apartment, I say, is the Dais-Chamber of our Palace, devoted to the
councils of our kingdom, and to other sacred and lofty purposes.

“The noble lady who sits opposite is Queen Pest, our Serene Consort. The
other exalted personages whom you behold are all of our family, and
wear the insignia of the blood royal under the respective titles of
‘His Grace the Arch Duke Pest-Iferous’--‘His Grace the Duke
Pest-Ilential’--‘His Grace the Duke Tem-Pest’--and ‘Her Serene Highness
the Arch Duchess Ana-Pest.’

“As regards,” continued he, “your demand of the business upon which we
sit here in council, we might be pardoned for replying that it concerns,
and concerns alone, our own private and regal interest, and is in no
manner important to any other than ourself. But in consideration of
those rights to which as guests and strangers you may feel yourselves
entitled, we will furthermore explain that we are here this night,
prepared by deep research and accurate investigation, to examine,
analyze, and thoroughly determine the indefinable spirit--the
incomprehensible qualities and nature--of those inestimable treasures of
the palate, the wines, ales, and liqueurs of this goodly metropolis: by
so doing to advance not more our own designs than the true welfare of
that unearthly sovereign whose reign is over us all, whose dominions are
unlimited, and whose name is ‘Death’.”

“Whose name is Davy Jones!” ejaculated Tarpaulin, helping the lady by
his side to a skull of liqueur, and pouring out a second for himself.

“Profane varlet!” said the president, now turning his attention to
the worthy Hugh, “profane and execrable wretch!--we have said, that in
consideration of those rights which, even in thy filthy person, we feel
no inclination to violate, we have condescended to make reply to thy
rude and unseasonable inquiries. We nevertheless, for your unhallowed
intrusion upon our councils, believe it

Last Page Next Page

Text Comparison with The Bells, and Other Poems

Page 0
L.
Page 4
the rolling of the bells-- Of the bells, bells, bells: To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells-- Bells, bells, bells-- To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
Page 6
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-- This it is, and nothing more.
Page 7
Nothing further then he uttered--not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before-- On the morrow _he_ will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.
Page 9
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her--that she died! How _shall_ the ritual, then, be read?--the requiem how be sung By you--by yours, the evil eye,--by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?" [Illustration: Lenore] _Peccavimus_; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong The sweet Lenore hath "gone before," with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride-- For her, the fair and _debonair_, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes-- The life still there, upon her hair--the death upon her eyes.
Page 10
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half-reclining; while the moon Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses, And on thine own, upturn'd--alas, in sorrow! Was it not Fate,.
Page 14
These were days when my heart was volcanic As the scoriac rivers that roll-- As the lavas that restlessly roll Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek In the ultimate climes of the pole-- That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek In the realms of the boreal pole.
Page 15
And I said--"She is warmer than Dian: She rolls through an ether of sighs-- She revels in a region of sighs: She has seen that the tears are not dry on These cheeks, where the worm never dies, And has come past the stars of the Lion, To point us the path to the skies-- To the Lethean peace of the skies-- Come up, in despite of the Lion, To shine on us with her bright eyes-- Come up through the lair of the Lion, With love in her luminous eyes.
Page 16
But were stopped by the door of a tomb-- By the door of a legended tomb; And I said--"What is written, sweet sister, On the door of this legended tomb?" She replied--"Ulalume--Ulalume-- 'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!" Then my heart it grew ashen and sober As the leaves that were crisped and sere-- As the leaves that were withering and sere; And I cried--"It was surely October On _this_ very night of last year That I journeyed--I journeyed down here-- That I brought a dread burden down here-- On this night of all nights in the year, Ah, what demon has tempted me here? Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber-- This misty mid region of Weir-- Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber, This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Page 17
And, as his strength Failed him at length, He met a pilgrim shadow-- "Shadow," said he, "Where can it be-- This land of Eldorado?" [Illustration: Eldorado] "Over the Mountains Of the Moon, Down the Valley of the Shadow, Ride, boldly ride," The shade replied-- "If you seek for Eldorado!" _TO M----_ O! I care not that my earthly lot Hath little of Earth in it, That years of love have been forgot In the fever of a minute: I heed not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that you meddle with my fate Who am a passer by.
Page 19
soul-searching eyes.
Page 20
erst it sham'd All other loveliness:--its honied dew (The fabled nectar that the heathen knew) Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven.
Page 22
A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down, Sat gently on these columns as a crown-- A window of one circular diamond, there, Look'd out above into the purple air, And rays from God shot down that meteor chain And hallow'd all the beauty twice again, Save when, between th' Empyrean and that ring, Some eager spirit flapp'd his dusky wing.
Page 24
On the harmony there? Ligeia! wherever Thy image may be, No magic shall sever Thy music from thee.
Page 26
Frances Sargent Osgood] Thou wouldst be loved?--then let thy heart From its present pathway part not! Being everything which now thou art, Be nothing which thou art not.
Page 28
[Illustration: The Valley of Unrest] _THE LAKE--TO----_ In spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less-- So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that towered around.
Page 29
] Not long ago, the writer of these lines, In the mad pride of intellectuality, Maintained "the power of words"--denied that ever A thought arose within the human brain Beyond the utterance of the human tongue: And now, as if in mockery of that boast, Two words--two foreign soft dissyllables-- Italian tones, made only to be murmured By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill," Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart, Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought, Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions Than even seraph harper, Israfel, (Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,") Could hope to utter.
Page 31
_ In Heaven a spirit doth dwell "Whose heart-strings are a lute;" None sing so wildly well As the angel Israfel, And the giddy Stars (so legends tell) Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell Of his voice, all mute.
Page 33
We are not impotent--we pallid stones.
Page 39
And boyhood is a summer sun Whose waning is the dreariest one-- For all we live to know is known, And all we seek to keep hath flown-- Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall With the noon-day beauty--which is all.